


Sostener

by Crowsister



Series: Mare vs. Overwatch [2]
Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: BPD!Reaper, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-07-13
Updated: 2016-07-13
Packaged: 2018-07-23 19:15:34
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,502
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7476492
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Crowsister/pseuds/Crowsister
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Gabriel has a long talk with a grinning cat</p>
            </blockquote>





	Sostener

They kept him in a cage. It was only for an illusion of safety -- like she said, he could escape and leave at any time.

He didn’t.

His daughter brought him breakfast every morning. He kept quiet about the fact that he no longer needed to eat, watching her bring in two plates of carne asada waffles with ridiculous amounts of maple syrup.

It was _their_ breakfast, the kind he used to make for her before they’d watch some ridiculous superhero cartoon every Saturday morning. In hindsight, perhaps he shouldn’t have been so encouraging about her professed desires to be a superhero as a child.

“Padre,” she’d greet him in his cell. “How did you sleep?”

“As comfortably as I did with the coffin I kept at home,” he’d lie. He didn’t sleep. There was no rest, under his curse, only a void of silence as thoughts churned in the cauldron of his skull.

Usually they’d drift to silence after checking on each other, not hiding behind phatic utterances and going straight to the point (he was proud she kept that trait from her childhood, the direct manner of confronting people) and falling silent when all direct means of showing affection were exhausted. You could only ask “how are you” in so many ways until the conversation died.

This morning, there was different conversation.

“I’ve been talking to the higher ups, mostly Winston -- you remember Winston, right Padre?”

“Monstruita, I nearly killed him four months ago. Si, I remember Winston,” he answered casually, looking up at her from under his hood.

She snorted, smirking. “Skills growing rusty, old man?”

“He wasn’t my primary target. I was more interested in his data on where Overwatch agents were-”

Stephanie interrupted him, reciting in an amused tone, “To kill them in a series of righteous and silent executions of the Lechuza that inhabits your body and soul, may the shotguns in your hands be your barn owl talons. Yes, Padre, you’ve recited this line of shit to me a whole bunch since Genji and I landed your sorry ass in this cell.”

He chuckled at her pride, letting himself imagine her pride as flames tickling at the darkness in his soul. It warmed him, just momentarily like a candle. He taught her not to be timid, not that she ever had been. He taught her to stand tall and proud in herself because if she didn’t, there might not be anyone around to do it for her. He was glad, _warm_ , because that survived.

“Your original line of thought, monstruita,” he asked, “what were you discussing with Winston?”

She snapped her fingers, nodding. “The idea of you coming out to the training floor with me. Of getting you help for your condition. I know there’s not a lot of trust for you right now in Overwatch-”

“Considering I want to kill a large majority of them, yes.”

That made her pause, leaning in her chair towards him across the table. “Majority? That’s different than the _entirety_ of Overwatch from your previous speeches, Padre.”

“They weren’t speeches, they were-”

“What, declarations? Still considered a speech, Padre.”

He sighed. “The truth is, hija, it sounds much more _dramatic_ and _threatening_ when I say _all_ and _entirety_. It makes them scared.”

“They aren’t sc-”

“They put me in a cell. They try to chain me when you aren’t here, mi monstruita. They are scared, to an extent. Perhaps not trembling at thought of me breaking free or having nightmares of my arrival, but they are scared of me to an extent. They’re scared of me leaving and returning to Talon with the coordinates of this new base. But they don't understand my reasonings and motives because I am not a villain from your old superhero cartoons, packed with monologues about my plans. I mislead them because I trust them as much as they trust me. You don’t know my story, hija.”

There was a moment of silence. She tapped at the table with her fingers, chipped silver nail polish glittering in the dim light. Bits of armor, he noted, wherever she could get it. He stayed still, not moving and just staring at her. He didn’t know when she’d leave again and he never knew if she was going to come back. He knew she was a field agent for this new era of Overwatch, but not much else. She didn’t discuss the details with him. He didn’t know her story either.

“I know that you’re angry,” she replied, breaking the silence. “I know, at some level, you’re scared. You look at me leaving sometimes like I'm walking off to my death, so you’re scared for me.”

“Hija, mi monstruita, Overwatch was the same organization that used me. I do not want them using you and tossing you to the side like a _toy_.”

Silence again. Her eyebrows slid into a frown, her fingers coming up to her chin. It wasn’t hard to see that thoughts were bubbling inside her, some mix of skepticism, suspicion, and determination. He didn’t flinch when that same hand tracing absent patterns on her chin and jawline suddenly slammed into the table, empty plates clinking from the sudden smack.

“Tell me your story, Padre,” she commanded. The tone brought him back to memories of acting out scenes from books, with her very much using the matured and refined version of what her younger self had dubbed her “King” voice. The voice she had told him she would use to lead people to victory, to justice. He wanted nothing more than to believe in her.

So he did.

“It all started when your mother took you away. I went back into military service, serving for a year before being selected for a super soldier program, straight from your cartoons.” He sighed deeply, pausing a moment. “I accepted, despite the warnings. It was a time where I had very little light, besides the memories of your childhood. If I couldn't raise you, couldn’t see you, I’d make the world a better place for you to live in. I was one of twenty selected volunteers, one of six survivors of the process.”

“Holy shit,” she muttered under her breath.

“I became a part of a top squad of soldiers, designated for the role of Hunter-Killer. My role was to be the silent hunting dog, infiltrating and killing my targets. I eventually became leader of my squad, being the oldest, highest ranking, and decorated among them. My right hand was Jack Morrison. That name is important, we’ll come back to him.”

“Jack Morrison...name’s ringing some bells, but I’ll remember.”

“I know you will. The Lechuza comes in two forms, after all.” He tilted back his hood, pointing to himself. “Owl.” And he reached out across the table, gently taking one of her hands. “And cat.”

She looked sheepish a moment, like she always did when he caught her with her hand in the cookie jar. “You’ve figured me out.”

He chuckled -- couldn’t help himself, the sound just rumbling out from his ribs to his lips like a kitten’s first steps. He let go of her hand, motioning into the air. “In any case, I was a part of that squad for a solid amount of time. Did some good work, did some bad work, questionable things. All part of a normal military experience.”

“Didn’t know espressos came in six foot human packages,” Stephanie joked, “because wow, you are _bitter_.”

“Comes with age,” he replied, “comes with my experiences.”

“It’s also a choice, to some extent. But go on. What’s next?”

He sighed. “This is very much something that they try to keep hidden. But I need you to promise to believe me, monstruita. I don’t know if I could take it if you didn’t.”

“Padre, you’re family. I don’t see why you’re going to lie about any of this. You clearly don’t have an agenda to try to make me like you, you’re too sincere in your self depreciating comments. Also, I have a distinct memory of you being a very shitty actor.”

“Is this about the time you were trying to get me to play the princess?”

Her lips quirked up. “Si.”

He snorted. “I am not very good at crying out for help-”

“That’s been made more than clear to me, by you and by... _others_. In any case, I promise to believe you.”

He took a deep breath. “I was the first leader appointed by the United Nations for Overwatch. I led the squad of what was dubbed the world’s best soldiers in fighting the Omnic Crisis for the first half of the war. All of the victories that stabilized the world, the ones that let us get this far, where led and crafted with me at the helm. Not Jack Morrison, who they appointed as leader after the worst was over, after I slayed their nightmares.”

“...that’s where that name rung a bell. He was the guy who lead Overwatch while Boston was under siege. He was the guy I managed to get a call to-”

“When you were seeking help,” he finished. “He was the one that told you to _wait_. That they’d be _right there_. I was put in charge of Blackwatch, Overwatch’s shadow of quiet operations for dealing with criminal organizations. Morrison is why you had to deal with the remaining Omnic army in Boston alone. Morrison is why I couldn't _save my daughter_ from several years of a hellish nightmare.” He put his hands on the table, claws lightly carving into the table as his fingers curled in frustration. “So when I say I want Overwatch to die, I mean I want those _racist_ and _ableist_ pendejos in the United Nations to die. I mean those fucks who decided which soldiers to _reward_ and which to _hide_.”

“What...what do you mean, hide, Padre? Didn’t they have action figures and posters-”

“Those that the United Nations dubbed safe for the public to know about. I mean all those who got to be recognized because they were white, because they were able to appear psychologically stable, because they could fit the description of their illusion, of normal, everyday people. If I hadn’t been an Afro-Latinx from Los Angeles with a side dish of borderline personality disorder and depression, if I had been the painted white little soldier that they wanted, I could have kept my leadership of Overwatch and saved-”

“You wouldn’t be my padre!” She cut in, getting up. They stared at each other. Tension licked at the air. It was easy to imagine her as a moon or a star, bright and glowing against the darkness that was him. She’d only grown warmer in their time apart and that made him glad. She walked over, standing behind him and leaning down. She wrapped her arms slowly around him, resting her head against his shoulder. His memory clicked slowly, remembering that this is what a hug felt like.

“Papi,” she muttered, softly into the leather hood, “if you weren’t Afro-Latinx, if you weren’t someone with BPD, if you fit those assholes’ view of normal, you wouldn’t be my father. There’s no guarantee that if you were white and not mentally ill, that I would’ve even been born. Or if you would’ve loved me more or less or if you would’ve raised me the same way. But crying out for the ifs and the shit we can’t ever have ain’t gonna help nothing. You’re _my_ normal. You’re _my_ padre. I wouldn’t trade you for any other man in the world to be my father.”

“This does not excuse-”

“Padre, listen to me. _I am not saying that_. Shit’s fucked, alright? Big men upstairs were fucks, the omnics were fucks, you were a fuck. But it can be better now. This Overwatch isn’t sanctioned by the UN. We’re a bunch of illegal vigilante shitheads, just trying to do good in a networked, unified way. You can be a part of that too. We can do good, together. Atoning is always possible, but you have to take all that regret and other fuckery of emotions and shove them into the goal of doing good. It’ll be a tough road to walk, but our road has always been _tough_ and _grueling_. And we’ll have each other.”

The two of them were quiet for a moment. He leaned against the table with his elbows, she leaned against him with her arms wrapped around him still. He absently wondered if she was a bit frightened by the fact she couldn’t feel his heartbeat, for he could feel hers. Pounding like her little fists did the day the court ruled he wasn’t anything more than a genetic donor, that the nights he picked her up after a nightmare and sung her to sleep didn’t matter. Since they were forcibly parted, it felt like very little he did actually mattered. He had to wonder, was working with Talon just going through the motions?

Having someone bark orders, outline a mission plan, for him to deal in blood and broken people with a promise for something he wanted more than his whole being; it was the story of his life. The military promised him his daughter, Overwatch promised change, Talon promised revenge. The first two never delivered. Now that he was letting himself think instead of his BPD ass take the wheel, why should his cynical heart believe in Talon? He wanted revenge, more than anything. He wanted to give scars for every single one that he earned while trying to inflict the change Overwatch wanted.

But every step he’d taken since being parted from his daughter was away from her rather than back to her smiling face. Perhaps if he’d acted...no. No use for what ifs. He had the choice _now_ to work by his daughter’s side, to do something she’d approve of, to maybe...maybe make her happy.

He felt her sigh softly. Perhaps he did wanted _something_ other than revenge. He hummed out a question, turning his head to look at her on his shoulder.

“Just promise me you’ll think about it, okay Padre?”

“If you asked, I’d promise you an ocean of blood and a throne of bones, mi monstruita,” he answered with a straight face.

He chuckled when she playfully swat his nose. “Padre-”

“Si, I will think about it, Stephanie,” he replied. “Go. Let the old man stew his cauldron and think about this. It is not an easy decision.”

“I know. I had to make it too,” she chuckled, leaning up and slowly unwrapping her arms from him.

He raised an eyebrow at that. “Next time you visit, you shall have to tell me your story, hija.”

“We’ll see. That’s not an easy decision to make.”

He snorted at her, watching her leave with the plates. He could have left, followed her and hounded her about what happened to her. This room couldn’t hold him.

But his daughter could.


End file.
